The Other Sister
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: Arrangements are made between Edith and her new husband. Edith/Various
1. Chapter 1

**Yes, I've started another drabble series. (I can keep up with them much easier!) This is a story I believe will be canon in season 4. Hopefully JF will send me some compensation for that. **

Edith managed to give Tom a smile, pained as it was, as he helped her into the waiting auto.

Not a tear was shed during the ceremony.

There'd only been a handful of guests. Martha Levinson was in America, Mary was in mourning, and Sybil was...

She studied her new husband's profile as he settled into the driver's seat. "Would you like to drive?" he asked, misinterpreting her scrutiny.

"You'd agree to that?" She'd meant to say this teasingly, but later she would wonder if her question had simply sounded shrill.

"I don't mind."

She pursed her lips at his lifeless tone. "I think I might rest on the way, if that's all right with you."

"I don't mind," he repeated.

She turned away. Would it always be like this? This cold politeness.

Her family was gathered on the kerb. Edith met her grandmother's especially grim expression defiantly. The Dowager had claimed two of her granddaughters marrying a commoner was going to lead to her end. For all her blustering, however, she hadn't dared stop a second wedding.

Her mother's face was tight with disapproval. Just when Cora Crawley thought nothing would shock her when it came to her second daughter's choice of men, she'd been proved wrong.

Not that the groom was Edith's first choice, nor she his. This would be a marriage in name only; convenience for all involved.

She raised her hand; not quite a wave. Hopefully everyone would be a little more accepting by the time they returned from their honeymoon.

Honeymoon... She shivered. Later tonight she would no longer be a virgin.

"We'll be in London before dinner," Tom interrupted her wandering thoughts. "He will be at the motel?"

She nodded. How odd it was; her husband wouldn't be the man sharing her bed tonight.


	2. Indecent Proposal

Edith stared out the window, remembering when she'd first posed the idea of marriage to Tom.

"I'll deter most women, one should hope. Although I'm sure there will be plenty who will imagine you'll still be eager for a mistress."

His blank look hadn't wavered at her feeble attempts at self-deprecating humour.

"But any handsome married man has to tend to that type of woman from time to time, I'm sure."

"Like Gregson," he'd sneered, at last showing some emotion.

She'd held his gaze, somewhat disconcerted that her motives should be so obvious from the first. "Yes," she'd finally conceded.

"That's why you want this marriage? To hide your clandestine affair with another married-"

"There's no chance of a divorce-"

"As there won't be with you and I, if we do this. And you'll have to convert to Catholicism. You're willing to do all this so you can have your way with this man?"

This was where she'd faltered, suddenly uncertain. Who knew that her religious convictions would be the one thing she'd be worried about compromising?

"Where will we live?" he'd asked before she could debate his arrogant stance on the church any further. "Here in the estate manager's house?"

She'd sniffed at his incredulous tone, and eyed his lodgings. She recalled what she knew about the house: six bedrooms and indoor plumbing.

"My only request is that I am allowed to take over two bedrooms."

"You won't be needing any fancy clothes if you marry me, you know."

"I don't need a dressing room," she'd snapped.

"Then, why?" he'd demanded, but she'd just bitten down on her bottom lip, refusing to reveal why she wanted a second bedroom just yet.

She still hadn't told him. She supposed that particular secret would be revealed when they returned from London.


	3. The Reception

Their suite of rooms took up an entire floor of the hotel.

Tom's face tightened when he was made aware of this extravagance, and it didn't relax when Edith reminded him in a low tone, "Appearances will be everything in this marriage."

Keeping with that theme, they dined together in the restaurant, Edith doing her very best not to continually glance towards the entrance for Michael's arrival.

They'd planned on casually running into each other; an editor and one of his star contributors. He'd suggest a celebratory drink in his room where, at the door, Tom would feign tiredness. If anyone made inquiries, they would only learn Michael Gregson was courting the Bransons for an exclusive story.

Ignoring the voice in her head scolding about the depths her morals had dipped, she again peeked through the dining room's glass doors. Her pulse began to quicken when she saw a familiar figure standing in the hotel's opulent foyer, apparently poised to join her and Tom.

"Mother told me you would be here, so I thought it best to come and show my support." Much to Edith's chagrin, their new guest repeated her earlier sentiment: "Appearances will be everything in this marriage."

"Aunt Rosamund," Edith spluttered.

"It's always best to quash any rumour before it becomes idle gossip," Rosamund confided sagely as she surprisingly offered up her cheek for Tom to kiss. "Mrs Collins has sent over a lady's maid and a valet to assist you both while you're here. I've taken the liberty of having them installed in your rooms. Yes, I know the hotel offers perfectly good service to their guests, but-" She paused before she finished her thought. "Look, Edith!" Next, she waved. "Hallo! Join us, do!"

Edith paled when she realised who Rosamund was inviting to their table.


	4. Disclosure

"I suppose you won't be writing for Mr Gregson's newspaper now that you're married."

Edith, feeling the two men at the table tense at Rosamund's question, carefully placed her knife and fork onto the sides of her plate.

"What you really mean to say, aunt, is that you should be terribly embarrassed should I keep writing for the newspaper, now that I'm married."

Rosamund had the good grace to flush slightly, at least.

"Well, it really isn't the done thing."

"Never fear, I'm officially giving up my short career as a journalist."

"What?" Tom said this word first, quietly. Michael, not bothering to hide his shock at the announcement, spluttered the word out immediately after.

"I'm giving up writing for the paper," she repeated, taking a small sip of sherry.

"Because you've married me?" Tom asked, his expression wary.

"In part," she replied vaguely.

"Well, at last, you've made one sensible decision," Rosamund declared, flashing a smug smile.

"As opposed to her decision to marry me?" Tom countered, a dangerous edge lacing his words.

Edith held her hand up, hoping her companions would not begin to argue further.

"I have simply decided I shall be far too busy to continue to make contributions on a regular basis," she elaborated. "Of course I expect I won't be able to stop myself from commenting on a subject if it is something I'm passionate about." She turned towards her soon-to-be-lover fully. "I do so hope you will accept my foolish ramblings should I put pen to paper and send them to you, Mr Gregson."

"Of course, Lady Edith. I should accept anything from you."

Edith let herself get lost in Michael's gentle charm.

"I shall pray you find a passion soon," he added softly.

Edith smiled and, for once, ignored Rosamund's watchful gaze.


	5. Smoke Screen

Edith stared out at the couple on the dancefloor; her aunt was clearly interrogating Michael.

"You think Gregson will be able to match wits with Rosamund?"

She swung around at Tom's dryly-put question. "He's an editor of a highly regarded newspaper. You don't think he can hold his own?"

"I know I can't. Against any Crawley woman." He peered thoughtfully at the couple dancing as he removed a battered looking paper pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out towards her. "Tell me about his wife."

Edith, faintly surprised by the sudden change of subject, primly refused a cigarette. "His wife?"

"There's lunatics and there's lunatics. My aunt Biddy had a tic that would shake her cheek every few minutes, plus she would take to swearing at the most inappropriate times." He laughed. "No one ever wanted her in church, even though it wouldn't be God's way to suggest she stay away. Yet underneath it all, she was a harmless old girl. Lived quite independently in a cottage on my uncle's, her brother's, farm until the ripe old age of 72."

He lit a cigarette before going on. "Then there's the type of lunatics that scare even the bravest man; ones so feral they need to be chained to their beds in case they should kill their own kin."

Edith paled, images from too many a gothic novel flitting through her mind.

"And there's many in between as well. What sort of behaviour was she displaying?"  
"I'm not sure," she confessed quietly.

Tom blew a plume of smoke over her head. "But surely you've asked."

"It's not something one could politely ask."

Tom flashed her a disbelieving look before stubbing out his only-half-smoked cigarette. Immediately she knew he was going to have more to say on the subject.


	6. Love Lost

Intent on ignoring Rosamund and Michael, Edith instead contemplated the crumpled cigarette lying in the table's crystal ashtray. Her nerves were fraught enough to consider taking up the popular pastime and asking for a new one from Tom's cheap looking packet.

Tom was still lecturing: "I would think that when a man agrees that you should marry another man so he can bed you without divorcing his lunatic wife, you cannot possibly view the details of this said lunacy as a forbidden subject."

"I thought you liked Michael."

"Matthew liked him. I trusted Matthew's instincts. But my liking him has little to do with his suitability for you. I liked Strallan, and yet he broke your heart."

That broken heart fluttered for a brief moment. It had been years. It was time she stopped feeling this way every time someone mentioned his name.

"Michael loves me. He won't break my heart," she declared.

"Yes, well, far be it for me to suggest you've read too much Bronte and romanticised Gregson. And far be it for me to suggest this entire idea of yours can only end in one way, and that involves more heartbreak."

"You don't think you've left this all a bit too late to discuss? If you had such thoughts, why are you only speaking out now? We got married today, Tom. You want us to seek an annulment? I was rather looking forward to being a boring wife of an agent."

Tom laughed, without humour. "Is that why you need Gregson, Edith? To add some intrigue and excitement to what would be a boring life with me and Sybbie?"

"Why should you get everything you want, and not I?" she blurted out without thinking.

Tom flushed. His reply was justifiably bitter: "This isn't what I want, Edith."


	7. Sinners and Saints

Edith's glance swept around the room. If she was to go and speak to any of the other elegantly dressed diners here tonight they would consider her welcome and charming company. They'd ask her opinion on subjects, and actually listen to her replies.

With her family, however, any sparkling intelligence ceased to exist. She became not only dull and awkward, but ignorant and downright rude at times.

She rarely apologised to her family for this behaviour, seeing it as somehow their fault, but she thought she owed it to Tom on this occasion. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to come out exactly that way. Our reasons for marrying..."

"The rest of the reasons, other than this Gregson thing, are sound."

Edith nodded slowly. "You get a wife who will be able to keep other women away from you, as well as a suitable mother figure for your daughter." Her shoulders slumped. "But Sybil was so much stronger than I am."

"Sybil was the strongest woman I'd ever met," Tom agreed.

"Remember when she wore trousers?" Edith asked, laughing.

Tom also laughed at the memory. "She worked during the war; she married a man who once lived in a garage... She remained a lady though." He took a long drink to compose himself before continuing: "You're stronger than you think. She was your sister, after all."

"There's Mary-"

"Mary is rather useless right now, forgive me for saying. She has her own child, and her own loss. Sybbie needs you. She's your niece. I'm sure Sybil died hoping you'd become a mother to her daughter, whether you married me or not."

Her gaze drifted again to the dancefloor. Michael was smiling in her direction. She couldn't manage to return his smile.

Tom was right. Sybbie should be their first priority.


	8. A Room with a View

Memories of her wedding night, exactly one year ago, flitted through Edith's mind as she took a cigarette from her silver-plated case and placed it between her lips. Michael leaned forward to light it for her.

"I won't be coming down to London next month."

"Oh?"

"Sybbie's turning three."

"There's the day before; or the day after."

Edith moved to the window and stared down at the autos rolling past.

"Sometimes even I miss the gentle clicking of a horse's hooves," she murmured, letting the curtain drop and turning to face Michael. "Maisie is getting married. She's the only nanny Sybbie's known. I'll have to remain at Downton until we can find a replacement."

"Tom _will_ be pleased."

"This pettiness of yours regarding Tom is rather tiresome. Of all people, you know the truth."

"Not sharing your bed doesn't stop him from wanting you to not share mine. Or from voicing his low opinion of me."

She grimaced, hoping he'd let the subject drop. If he didn't, she would have to sharply dismiss it. She was far too tired for this ridiculous round and round argument that never got them anywhere.

"I'm going to wash," she announced.

"Phillipa Cavendish saw you," he spat out just as she'd pulled on a nightgown to cover her nudity. "Two days ago. You only called to say you were in London this morning."

She took another puff from her cigarette before carefully extinguishing it into an ashtray. One year ago she would have been so eager to tell Michael why she was in London early. Now, it seemed, all the characters in her life had their role to play, and Michael was to be the jealous lover.

"What a difference a year makes," she said. Then, she turned and headed for the hotel bathroom.


	9. Welcome Home

Edith instructed the driver to drop her off at the back of the house. She had originally planned to be in London for another night and she wanted to ensure cook knew to include her for dinner.

She was promptly scolded about her entrance through the 'servants' door' by the housekeeper. "I could just imagine what Mr Carson would say!"

"We shan't tell him, Mrs Owen." She dared give the woman's arm a squeeze.

She had never been particularly close to any of the servants at Downton; never had a relationship like Mary had with Anna, or Sybil with Gwen. Here, however, she felt personally connected with the staff in her employ. Tom's demeanour probably influenced the household's behaviour, but she also appreciated the way Mrs Owen especially treated her as the true mistress of the house, despite any apparent inappropriateness surrounding her marriage.

This familiarity she'd established with the housekeeper meant she instantly noticed a certain tension about Mrs Owen upon her arrival; more than she would expect from merely entering through the incorrect door.

Then, her request for a pot of tea, and perhaps the hope that the kitchen could conjure up some type of small cakes, to be served in the front parlour, elicited another distressed expression to cross Mrs Owen's features.

"Lady Mary is visiting with Mr Tom in the front parlour, ma'am."

Why would her sister visiting her husband cause Mrs Owen such anxiety?

"And Miss Sybbie?"

"The young miss is up at the Abbey with Maisie, ma'am. Mrs Hughes is helping Maisie plan her wedding, and Sybbie is spending some time with her grandparents. They're expected home by three, ma'am."

It was barely two o'clock now, and Tom wasn't working out on the estate? Instead he and Mary were...

Surely not... Tom and Mary?


	10. Subject Matter

Despite her outwardly calm demeanour and confident assurances to Mrs Owen, Edith kept to the centre of the narrow rug which ran the length of the hallway, thus dulling her footsteps and ensuring her arrival wouldn't be heralded to her husband or sister.

She paused outside the parlour door, aware that silence from the room would confirm much more than any noise could.

There was anything but silence. There was quite a bit of passion; but not the romantic type. Tom and Mary were obviously in the middle of a heated argument.

Sighing at her own foolishness, she made to enter the room. She changed her mind, however, when she heard her own name mentioned, and instead decided to listen for a moment longer.

"I just don't think we've reached the stage that obliges us to tell her."

"She's my wife, Mary. I think I know her well enough."

"She's my sister, I know her-"

"Do you? I believe she'd appreciate knowing."

"She's with Gregson."

"We can't be sure about the nature of their relationship."

"Oh, Tom. You can't seriously think they sit around, sipping tea and innocently talking about books every time they meet?"

"Why not? He's her editor"

"_Was_ her editor"

"She might have imagined herself in love with Gregson for a while, but it's nothing like the love she had for Strallan."

"No, her love for Strallan was her romantic ideal. But it doesn't mean he was her true love and the way she moved onto Gregson proved it. She doesn't need to know this new development."

Edith had had quite enough. She opened the door wide, visibly startling Tom and Mary.

"If my opinion matters at all," she snapped, "I would like to opt for knowing exactly what new development you're trying to hide from me."


	11. Proven Guilty

Edith listlessly pushed the food on her plate around with her fork. She felt terribly guilty that she'd burst into the kitchen earlier demanding an extra meal, and she'd so far only managed to eat a meagre amount

Another wave of guilt washed over her when she looked across the table to her husband. Confession, they said, was good for the soul. "When I came home... I thought you and Mary..." She didn't elaborate any further. There was no need; Tom's frown suggested he'd guessed her suspicions.

"I won't even justify that idea with a defensive comment," he said shortly before he shoved another forkful of food into his mouth.

With a sigh, she lowered her cutlery with an undignified clatter.

"Do you think Father Michael would hear my confession?" she asked hesitantly.

He swallowed before replying. "Of course he would. You're Catholic now. Thanks to Mrs Levinson."

Her maternal grandmother had been the one to reassure her when she'd written in regards to her concerns on the subject of religion. Martha had pointed out that Cora had been Jewish, and had become loyal to the Church of England only to marry father and claim the Grantham title.

"I wonder if he'll forgive me," she mused in a soft voice.

"Once you attend confession, God will-"

"I didn't mean God," she interrupted. She then made a feeble attempt at smiling for her husband's sake when she realised bitterness had crept into her tone. "I meant Sir Anthony."

Tom took a deep breath. "Strallan left you at the altar, Edith. If anyone should be seeking forgiveness, it's him."

"I need him to forgive me for giving up so easily."

Tom pushed his plate towards the centre of the table. "Do you still love him?"

She blinked away tears. "I don't know."


	12. Peripheral Vision

Edith's writing journal lay open, but blank. Behind her, Harriet was busy transcribing the pages she'd written in London. Her typist's efficiency was such that she should make more of an effort to write something today, but all she'd managed thus far was to stare out the window.

There was a lovely view. It was why she'd chosen this bedroom to be her writing room.

Out the left side there was a line of estate cottages, separated by well-maintained hedges. So many ideas popped into her head when watching the bustling local workers and their wives.

Past the cottages were the greenest fields, dotted with a few cows and horses, and many more sheep.

Closer to the house was a patch of green where Sybbie often played with her nanny, Maisie. During these times, Sybbie would often smile and wave to her stepmother through the window. As distracting as this was, Edith wouldn't have it any other way.

To the right was the courtyard where visitors parked their autos, thus ensuring Edith was always forewarned of any unexpected or uninvited guests.

If she bent her head, there were glimpses of the barn and the servants' quarters, which both lay just beyond the garage.

There was one thing she could not see from her window: the Abbey. It was only visible from the other side of the house. This reminded her she was no longer part of that world; if she ever had been.

As Sir Anthony's wife, she may have managed to be part of the establishment. It was why she had pursued him so eagerly in the first place. But had she later fallen in love with the man, or merely the idea of marrying him?

She would not let herself go to him until she knew the answer.


	13. Proof

Edith looked around the parlour while she waited. Nothing had changed since she'd last visited.

The decorative pieces in the room were quite outdated. They'd been chosen by Maude Strallan many years ago. Before their supposed wedding day, Edith had rehearsed just how she would approach the idea of altering the furnishings of the house with Anthony. Wasted sleepless nights, as it turned out.

She stood and approached the mantle above the fireplace where several photographs were on display: distant relatives of Sir Anthony; then, in pride of place, the late Lady Maude. She had died before photographs became as popular as they were today, and yet there was still an impressive number.

Lady Strallan wasn't smiling for the camera, but then again, Edith conceded, few people ever did. She remembered Anthony telling her once that underneath his first wife's austere appearance, Maude had a wicked sense of humour.

"Are you laughing at me?" she murmured, peering closer at the graceful curve of the woman's neck, her tiny nose, her high angular cheekbones, the indistinguishable colour of her wide eyes.

Then, Edith focused on another photograph. One of Sir Anthony himself, in uniform, just as he'd enlisted she presumed, as his arm was yet to be amputated.

She stroked her finger along his likeness before her gaze skimmed along the rest of the shelf. "Not one of me," she noted.

She drifted over to the bookcase, running her fingers along the neat rows of books. This, she remembered, was something she and Anthony always had in common; their love for books. He had many more in the formal library, and unlike some other gentlemen she knew, they weren't merely for appearance's sake.

Suddenly the butler was hovering in the parlour doorway.

"Sir Anthony is ready to see you now, ma'am."


	14. Break Down

Edith pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator. The trip home was taking much too long.

Her breaths were coming out in short, shallow gasps. She leaned her head as far out the window of the motorcar as possible, letting the breeze cool her clammy skin. Even this dull odour of oil, petrol and exhaust fumes was preferable to the stench of antiseptic and urine, she decided.

_"Mary? Tom?"_

"It's Strallan. Cancer."

"Cancer?"

"He's just taken a turn for the worse. Clarkson has been out there daily for the past week."  
  
She felt bile rise to her throat.

She sharply turned the steering wheel and slammed her foot down on the brake, parking haphazardly on the side of the road. She needed more air.

She struggled with the automobile's door handle, eventually escaping its confines to stumble across the road, where she promptly emptied the contents of her stomach into a ditch.

Eventually she straightened, only to realise she was too light-headed to even think of driving again just yet, despite her eagerness to return home.

Ducking under a fence running parallel to the road, she took a few awkward steps into a field before her legs collapsed beneath her.

She fumbled to retrieve a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped at her mouth, nose and eyes. Adults shouldn't indulge in such self-pity.  
_  
"How long have you two known about his illness?"_

"A few months, but-"

"Why do you think I spend time with Michael, Mary? Tom? Because he's the only person I know who doesn't treat me like a child."

"Please rain," she whispered up at the dark clouds forming above her.  
_  
"I knew you'd come."_

"You knew more than I, then."

"I've missed you. It's been so long. So many years."

"Yes."

"I hoped you'd come... Maude..."


	15. First Priority

When the crispness in the air suggested it was late afternoon, Edith heard an automobile pull up. After the distinctive creak of its door, the crunch of boots on gravel indicated the driver had approached.

For a moment she contemplated making an effort to greet her visitor, but then decided they would soon enough call out. _"Do you need some assistance, ma'am?" _she imagined.

Only when long minutes went by and she'd heard no such cry, nor the motor's ignition signalling any departure, did she raise herself up onto her elbows and look around.

Tom sat a few feet away, absentmindedly plucking blades of grass from the ground.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.

"George Sykes called Mrs Owen. He's quite worried for Betsy."

She frowned. "Betsy?"

At Tom's gesture, Edith glanced over her shoulder. Betsy, it seemed, was a dairy cow sharing the field into which she'd stumbled.

"I don't think she's particularly unsettled by my company, considering I haven't heard her once."

"I'm sorry about Strallan," Tom rasped.

She turned away, to watch Betsy grazing.

Later, Tom spoke again. "Edith, are you ready to come home?"

"I always come second," she said softly instead of directly answering. "Second to my parents, second to Patrick, second to John-" Tom never asked who this John was, despite his knowing nothing about John Drake. "Second to Sir Anthony, second to Michael." She turned back and held Tom's gaze. "Second to you."

Tom looked down at the grass.

"Everyone except-"

"Sybbie," he finished for her. "You're the only mother she's known."

Edith rose and dusted off her clothes.

"Will we drive home together and get Joe to collect the other motor later?"

Tom expelled a sigh before standing also and offering his arm. "Yes, let's go home together."


	16. Mass Confusion

Edith stood in front of her pew. This time she wouldn't be required to either kneel or sit down again. Instead, she took a couple of tentative paces towards the church's centre aisle. She could feel the entire congregation's eyes on her, some filled with pity, some with curiosity.

She fell into step behind the priest and coffin, thankful that the graveside service would at least be short and she would soon be able to go home to grieve in private.

The hymns and readings had consumed her thoughts inside the church, but once she exited, she couldn't stop the memories of her wedding day: her disappointment, but also her relief. She hadn't ever imagined things would end like this...

She swayed for a brief moment and Mary caught her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"We've been to too many funerals," her sister murmured. For a moment, Edith couldn't help but compare today to Patrick's memorial service. There'd be no flippancy from her sister today, she realised.

She shivered as they followed the narrow paved path through the church grounds. Winter had a firm grip on the county and to Edith, this frigid atmosphere seemed apt. Fierce gusts of wind pushed her, along with the rest of the mourners, towards the cemetery, whether she wanted the body in that coffin to reach that final destination or not.

Matthew's grave caught her eye, but it was Sybil's that they stopped in front of.

Those curious looks increased dramatically when Tom's coffin was lowered into the ground upon his first wife.

"Mama..."

Edith clutched Sybbie's hand as her four-year-old daughter's body began to quake with confusion.

The priest sprinkled holy water. "May his soul, and the souls of the all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace."


	17. Biography

Edith placed her hand on Maggie's arm. "I'm not sure about this. I don't want to steal the limelight."

"You've got more right to be here than anyone," her friend, who Edith had long ago stopped calling Mrs Owen, admonished. Still, they moved as unobtrusively as possible to the back of the bookstore, just as the writer taking part in the book signing started to speak.

"EC Barton's first book was published in 1923. It was an instant hit, and she went on to write another 36 books. I've written one and I'm exhausted."

Edith laughed along with the small audience at the writer's dramatic sigh.

"As much as the public loved Barton's characters, like amatuer sleuth Lady Phillida Palmer, newspaper editor George Blake, war hero Sir Peter Spencer, and the adventurous ambulance driver Aggie Finch, they also loved speculating about her private life, especially when her real identity was revealed in 1942. I learned which of the rumours were true, and which she _wished_ were true."

Edith snorted softly.

"She didn't marry her husband for love. And yet, during their short marriage, especially the year before his tragic death, they became close, and she never remarried after he died. She's quoted as saying his first wife was the love of his life, and his sister-in-law became his second wife and best friend. It sounds complicated, but in reality it was all very simple."

Maggie passed Edith a handkerchief.

"I wrote this book with the hope people will love Lady Edith as much as they love EC Barton."

"Nice title," Maggie, handing Edith a copy of the book as they joined the autograph line.

"_My Mother, the Other Sister_ by Sybil Branson."

"The true life story of EC Barton and her secret family," Maggie read the subtitle.

"Definitely a bestseller."

The End

A/N I apologise for killing Tom! I really did intend to originally write Edith and Tom falling in love with each other, but I don't ever plan my fics, and the last few chapters I realised that this was how I wanted it to end. I completely blame my current obsession with Dorothy Sayers. :) Thanks for all your reviews and for giving this odd pairing a chance. Maybe I'll write something from their 'missing year' one day!


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